


i get distracted easily

by zenstrike



Series: you’re lucky that’s what i like [28]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Keith really loves Lance, Klance shenanigans, Lance’s tattoos!!!, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, lance really loves keith, lovey dovey nonsense, self-indulgent romantic garbage, they’re so freaking devoted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17555870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenstrike/pseuds/zenstrike
Summary: Lance and Keith go on an adventure, and Lance is reminded that things are never as dire as he thinks.





	i get distracted easily

**Author's Note:**

> written for the soft sentence prompts, for anon: “It’s getting crowded. Here, hold my hand.”
> 
> NOTE THAT KLANCE GETS BUSY IN THIS ONE SO LIKE,  
> A) i suffered  
> and  
> B) to skip it, when you reach “Lance had shivered, pressing his face against the pillow and holding his breath,” Ctrl+f to the next section, which starts: “He had slipped from the bed when Keith fell asleep.”
> 
> mostly they are MUSHY as ALL HELL and i’m introducing the next Major Lance Crisis LMAO

Keith had nested, all on his own, in the corner of the couch. He looked comfortable, bundled up in blankets and one of Hunk’s sweaters and with a novel propped open on his knees.

    “You want to do what?” Keith said.

    Lance jerked back to his senses, maybe a little slow, but the thrum of warmth that came with looking at a peaceful Keith made him sluggish and uncertain.

    “I want to go to the mall,” he said quickly.

    And then he imagined scrambling onto the couch and Keith making room for him and the easy way they would snuggle up together. Lance knew he’d fall asleep like that, comfy and safe and warm. He’d listen to Keith’s heartbeat and Keith would read to him, so quietly that Lance would hear every third word and understand nothing.

    “Why?” Keith tapped at the pages of his book.

    “Oh, you know,” Lance said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on his feet. He was smiling without really meaning to, just happy to be looking at Keith and having Keith look at him.

    (That’s what he’d become. Attention seeking, maybe. His tattoos were starting to burn on his skin, unfinished and waiting for a decision that Keith wasn’t pushing.)

    “I don’t.”

    Lance shrugged. “Let’s just get out of the apartment for a bit.”

    “Why?”

    He heaved a sigh and took the two steps to the couch, dropping onto it and feeling for Keith’s feet under the blankets. Keith pulled away but Lance felt his toes wiggle and saw the smile twitch at his lips.

    Lance grinned.

    “Come on,” he said.

    “It’s going to be busy.”

    “Maybe, maybe not.”

    Keith eyed him for a moment more, and then shook his head and began untangling himself from the blankets. He tossed the book aside, muttered something about Lance being demanding, and pecked a kiss to Lance’s forehead as he passed.

    Lance watched him go, his stomach buzzing and his skin warm.

 

***

 

    Maybe it was normal.

    He wasn’t actually sure.

    He saw Keith every day, or almost every day. They woke up together. Keith slept better when Lance slept better. Lance had photos of Keith holding Red and sleepily waiting for coffee to brew. He had photos of Keith sitting cross-legged on their bed in the sun. 

    Lance had a habit of watching him. He’d wait for his chance: when Keith was looking somewhere else, or let his guard down for a moment (when he got soft or sleepy or relaxed). He’d trek across campus—no, he’d run with his backpack banging against his back and his cheeks flushed—just to catch Keith as he came out of class, his head usually bowed and fingers flipping through his notes.

    Just to catch him. Just to see him in his natural element. Just to have the pleasure of Keith’s surprise, and his surprised smile, when he spotted Lance.

    He saw Keith every day and he missed him desperately in the hours they weren’t together and maybe he was afraid of admitting it.

    Maybe it was normal.

 

***

 

    They got on the bus and Lance leaned away from the window and against Keith. Keith held his hand and kissed his cheek and then the top of his head when Lance’s pretended to doze against his shoulder. He watched Keith go through his emails with his left hand, and then a half-finished article, and then a series of silenced hamster videos like he knew Lance was watching.

    Lance hid his smile in Keith’s shoulder. Keith kissed him again.

    They got off the bus with their hands still clasped together. Lance felt huge and buoyant as they slipped across the parking lot and into the buzzing entrance. It was a little bit of nostalgia, a little bit of joy, a little bit of hope for the future, maybe. He liked the way Keith hunched into his coat collar and the way Keith shrugged his free hand out of his pocket when they were inside and warm.

    It was still early, for a Sunday. Even with the buzz of voices and a competition roaring at the ice rink further away, the mall felt oddly empty. Peaceful, even.

    “Where do you want to go?”

    Lance shrugged. “Let’s just wander.”

    “Wander,” Keith echoed, squeezing Lance’s hand. “We sat on a bus for twenty minutes just to wander.”

    “Live a little, sugar cookie.”

    “That one is—nope.”

    Lance grinned.

    The noise drew him: music and scattered cheering. It was loud, though the crowd gathered around the edges of the rink was small. Mats had been lain over the ice and a stage erected and on stage were—

    “Jesus,” Keith said, scrubbing his free hand over his face and grimacing at the sparkly, smiling toddlers.

    “Baby cheerleaders,” Lance cooed.

    “They’re _kids_.”

    “They’re adorable!”

    Lance tugged Keith to the rail and ignored Keith’s muttering. A set of parents to their right were beaming and taking photos and video and talking quietly to each other. The cheer team couldn’t have been older than five, in their tiny uniforms and with sparkles on their cheeks and in their eyes. A girl fell over. The routine continued, clumsy and with movements that Lance could only describe as “chubby.” He leaned against the rail, his grin splitting his face wide.

    The song ended and the team waved at and bounded off the stage, grinning and holding hands.

    “Adorable,” Lance sighed.

    “This is so weird.”

    “It’s not!”

    Another team was announced, just as young and just as sweet, stumbling their way into position.

    “Let’s go find food,” Keith muttered, patting his fingers against the back of Lance’s hand. “And coffee.”

    Lance pouted but let Keith lead him away, their shoes leaving late-winter muck on the tiles as they went.

    They found a Tim Hortons upstairs and Keith complained about bad coffee but slurped his up. They shared a bagel, and a danish, and knocked their ankles together under the table. Lance could still hear the cheer competition carrying on, further away, like a cheery buzz under Keith’s mutterings about coffee and mall walkers and _let’s find something real to eat for lunch, Lance_ and _what are you thinking about, Lance_?

    What _was_ he thinking about?

    Lance licked some flecks of pastry from his thumb and considered the question. He watched Keith peer into his emptied coffee cup like more would appear if he willed it.

    He was thinking about stars.

    And how his hand missed Keith’s, and how his skin was screaming for him to press close and tangle his hands in Keith’s hair. He could say _touch me_ and Keith would, careful and slow. He could say _I love you_ right there in the middle of the mall and Keith would crowd into his space and press a featherlight kiss to his neck or his chin and say _Lance_ and _I know_ and _I love you, too_.

    Keith looked up at him, frowning. “What?”

    Lance beamed. “I was thinking about how handsome you are,” he said. “How pretty your face is.”

    Keith scrunched up said face, his nose wrinkling. Lance wanted to leap across the table and press a dozen kisses to his cheeks.

    “You were not,” Keith said.

    “I was!”

    Keith eyed him suspiciously. Lance smiled some more.

    They got up and cleared their table and knocked their shoulders together.

    “I want a hat,” Lance said.

    “A hat.”

    “Maybe a sweater.”

    “A sweater.”

    “That’s what I said!”

 

***

 

    Lance had designed a dozing lion made out of a dozen stars for Hunk. He knew where it’d be: creeping over the side of his ribs, like a warm hug or a steadying touch, once he reached the spot. Once the purple and the warmth and the sting had gotten that far.

    He already had a looping collection of stars over his left shoulder and down to his shoulder blade, part swirl and part wave and part gust: one star for each member of his family, including two tiny ones like wingtips for the twins and one pronounced and eager for Nick. (Nick had cried when Lance had shown him and that had made Lance think he’d be a good brother.)

    He had a design in mind for Red: an artificial brightness, a mimicry of the sky that made him think of her sleeping in his hands or running on her wheel or of her bringing him and Keith together.

    In his sketchbook, he wrote Keith’s name over and over in permanent marker: an expression of frustration, a loose curling in his stomach manifested as smeared ink that bled into the next page and reminded Lance that there had to be _something_ —

    He had ripped out the page. He kept it, folded and embarrassing, in the secret pocket on the side of his backpack: _Keith—Keith—Keith—Keith_.

 

***

 

    They walked from one side of the mall to the other, the Sunday hours ticking away.

    Keith said: “What about this sweater?”

    And Lance said: “Eh.”

    And Keith forced it over his head, scratchy and comfy and huge and Lance had laughed until he fell into the rack.

    They abandoned the sweater and snuck out of the store, Lance hiding his giggles behind his hands and Keith trying to swallow his smile.

    They found a hat store: dimly lit with square shelves that Keith said reminded him of a “Dark Timeline IKEA.”

    Lance liked the little hats, with their tiny clips and ridiculous decorations. Keith wore three for him and let Lance take a dozen pictures.

    The girl at the register watched them, scowling.

    Keith wore four more hats out of spite and Lance sent several pictures to Hunk, who replied: “what the hell are you guys doing.”

    Keith looked so unhappy in a grey fedora Lance thought he’d cry from happiness. He kissed Keith’s cheek and Keith gave him a grumpy little smile and then bought him a light blue mini-bowler on a black headband.

    Lance wore it proudly as they left the store, the girl still scowling at them.

    They went to another coffee shop: small, and tucked into a quiet section of the mall and with pastries that made Lance drool. Keith said they’d find real food and Lance resisted temptation, but they shared a cappuccino that puffed cinnamon when Lance put the lid on and they walked close together back toward the busy parts of the mall.

    “Nice hat,” sneered a boy a little younger than them, with his cheeks ruddy and his sweater huge and his eyes narrowed. But Lance smiled and Keith leaned around him to scowl and, together, they loomed over the boy until he stomped away.

    “Nice hat,” cheered a little girl, clutching her mother’s hand and grinning up at Lance. They high-fived. Keith shoved his smile into their coffee cup and when they turned to continue on their way, Lance poked his cheek until Keith stopped hiding.

    In the food court, they muttered ideas and suggestions to each other until indecision made them both irritable. They shared a giant container of mall Chinese food and Lance hooked their arms together while they found a table.

    “This isn’t real food,” he stage-whispered.

    Keith rolled his eyes.

 

***

 

    It was the kind of day his mother would describe as “wasted hours.”

    And then she’d look at Isabel and Isabel would give her a shy smile and Lance would lean on the table or against the couch or around the corner just to look at them look at each other and wonder how hours could be called wasted if they left you so happy.

 

***

 

    The Chinese food left Lance’s mouth feeling greasy and his chin kind of itchy and he kept scratching at his face as they started back to the entrance closest to the mall. He had no sweater, but he had a hat and he had a boyfriend who kept looking at said hat and smiling.

    The cheer competition was impossibly louder, now. More crowded.

    They paused, Lance’s fingers dragging against his chin and Keith tilting his head, and a girl flew and spun into the air above the heads of the crowd and then fell back and vanished.

    “Must be the older kids,” Lance said.

    Keith nodded.

    They kept walking, elbows knocking together, and the crowds grew and grew and the noise grew and grew.

    “It’s getting crowded,” Lance said.

    “What?”

    Louder: “It’s getting _crowded_!”

    Keith nodded and the peaceful Sunday morning vibe they’d revelled in all day seem to vanish. Lance had a moment of terror, gripping at his insides and making his ribs bend: he didn’t want to let go.

    And then Keith slipped his hand into Lance’s and squeezed and said, close to Lance’s ear: “Hold onto me.”

    Lance would, he knew. He’d hold on—

    “I don’t want to lose you,” he blurted, but Keith wasn’t looking at him.

    “You won’t,” Keith replied, absent and loud, and tugged Lance through the crowd.

    Maybe it was okay they were talking about different things.

    Lance’s cheeks burned and his heart thudded.

 

***

 

    Could he say: _it’s all for you_ ; or, _it’s all because of you_ ; or, _you’re what I see when I dream of the stars_?

    He could.

    It wouldn’t be enough, though. It wouldn’t be right.

 

***

 

    Lance leaned heavily on Keith during the ride back.

    He liked the smell of Keith’s neck when he unzipped his jacket a little, and the feel of Keith’s arm against his own, and warmth of Keith’s hand in his.

    “You okay?” Keith mumbled partway through the trip, his lips ghosting at Lance’s forehead.

    “Yup,” Lance sighed.

    “I like your hat,” Keith said after a moment.

    Lance smiled. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “My boyfriend got it for me.”

    “He must like you a lot.”

    “That’s the feeling I get.”

    “Good.”

    On his phone, Keith pulled up a video of a kayaker’s encounter with an orca pod and Lance felt loved enough to fly.

   

***

 

    Then what?

    He didn’t know, yet.

    He was waiting for Keith to ask. He was waiting for Keith to look at him with hurt in his eyes and impatience on his lips and say _I thought I meant something to you_.

    He could say _you mean everything to me_ and it wouldn’t be enough.

 

***

 

    They spent the rest of the day studying on the couch, Lance lounging between Keith’s legs and with Keith’s breath (and book) on his head. He squeezed Keith’s knee every couple of pages of his biochem text and Keith pressed kisses behind his ear every once in a while.

    Hunk messaged that he liked Lance’s hat.

    “‘cause it’s a good hat,” Keith said.

    It was.

    “Did you have a nice day?” Keith asked when Lance was settled next to him in bed that night, their duvet pulled around his shoulders. Keith leaned up on an elbow to look down at him, his eyes shining in the dark like two stars.

    “Yup,” Lance whispered. His fingers twitched against their sheets. “Did you?”

    “Yeah.”

    They smiled at each other, and then Keith’s glanced away. Lance watched his smile melt away, watched his brow furrow. Keith looked back at him.

    “What?”

    “Lance,” Keith started, and then paused and seemed to steel himself, and then: “What’s on your mind?”

    “Nothing.”

    “Liar.”

    Lance squirmed against the sheets. “I just missed you, I guess,” he mumbled, nosing into one of their pillows.

    “Missed me?” Keith reached for him, his fingers dancing over Lance’s cheeks until Lance looked at him again. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Lance grumbled. “I’m weird.”

    “Don’t,” Keith scolded. “Just talk to me.”

  “I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend. What’s weird about that?”

“You said weird, not me.”

“Then what are _you_ saying?”

Keith didn’t reply immediately. He frowned, watching Lance unblinkingly, still balanced on his elbow but leaning close. Lance held his breath.

 “You don’t have to tell me,” Keith said eventually. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Something burst, cool and warm at the same time, over Lance’s heart. He twisted his hands in the sheets. He forced himself to breathe.

“I want you,” he said, his mouth dry and his lips creaking. “All the time, Keith. I just—want you.”

 Keith was quiet, and then: “Yeah?” He licked his lips. Lance heard him suck in a breath.

“Yeah,” Lance breathed.

 Keith pulled the duvet away and Lance released the sheets to reach for him, tangling his hands in Keith’s hair. Keith kissed him, hard and bruising, and it felt like they were melting into the bed.

Lance forgot to be afraid, then. He swallowed Keith’s groan and he waited for the stars to rain down on them.

 

***

 

(“It looks good,” Keith had said, pressing a kiss to Lance’s shoulder and trailing his fingers over Lance’s back. Lance had hummed, boneless and comfortable on his stomach, the pillowcase dragging at his mouth with every breath. Keith’s hand had drifted down, over his side and settling firmly just above Lance’s waist. “Hunk’ll go here?”

“Yeah,” Lance had sighed, cracking one eye open to look up at Keith with his hair all mussed and wild and his shoulders wide and collarbones tempting.

And Keith had smiled and Lance had started to wonder when he would ask: _what about me, sweetheart?_

Keith had settled next to him, his arm heavy over Lance and his lips warm against Lance’s shoulder, and he had said: “You’re amazing.”

Lance had shivered, pressing his face against the pillow and holding his breath.)

 

***

 

Lance gasped, throwing his head back against the pillows and squeezing his eyes shut. Keith groaned against his neck and whispered his name again and again ( _Lance—Lance—Lance_ ), each breath inflating Lance’s heart until he felt like nothing more than a heartbeat and a smattering of whines and moans caught in his throat. A collection of vibrating muscles and the sweat on his back and the lips on his skin.

He had one hand tangled in Keith’s hair, tight and desperate, and the fingers of his other hand dragging against Keith’s shoulder so he saw colour bleed over his closed eyelids. The burn, the drag, the rock of Keith’s hips into his—it was enough to make him want to hide, bury himself in the sheets and disappear from sight—it was enough to make him want to burn up in it, to throw himself at and into Keith until they were nothing but this.

“Keith,” he tried, feeling huge and small at once. “ _Keith._ ”

Keith lifted his head, his breathing loud and ringing along Lance’s spine. He whispered something Lance couldn’t catch and kissed him, quick and soft and almost chaste.

One of them whimpered. Lance’s thoughts spun.

He opened his eyes, straining to catch his breath, and saw Keith looking right back a him, his eyes huge and wide and focused.

“Keith,” he said again.

“I love you,” Keith said. Lance groaned. “Lance—sweetheart—”

“All the time,” Lance said, his voice trembling and quiet. “Keith, I just—”

Keith caught his lips again, pulling the words from his tongue.

 

***

 

(He had slipped from the bed when Keith fell asleep, out from under Keith’s arm and away from the soft, peaceful sound of his dreams.

He had stood at the bathroom mirror, feeling exposed and chilled, and twisted to look at what he could of his nebula. It had looked like warmth on his skin, like the colour seeped out from inside him. He had pressed his fingers to still-new stars for his family, the swirl beautiful and bright against the purple.

He had wondered if Keith was still on his skin, on his neck and his back. Maybe he always was.

Lance had twisted forward again and leaned over the sink, drumming his fingers against the porcelain. The bathroom lights had been so bright and harsh. The mirror had seemed too small and his skin had seemed too tight.

He had taken a blanket from the living room couch and wound it around his shoulders and opened his sketchbook on the table and had said to himself: _now_.

But nothing had come.

Just Keith’s name in the corner of the page, bold and dark. Lance had tapped his marker against the edge of the pages and then popped off the cap again and written Keith’s name again, slow and deliberate: K-E-I-T-H. And then again—)

 

***

 

The room felt stifling. Keith had opened the window and Lance pressed his feet against the cool wall. In her new spot on the opposite wall, Red slurped at her water and twitched her ears.

They snuggled close together. Lance rubbed absent, abstract shapes against Keith’s back and Keith sighed into his hair. He loved the ease that came with being naked and sleepy together, boneless and smelling of each other. He thought he’d sleep okay tonight, Keith keeping him close and the window blowing warm wind against their curtains.

“Keith,” he whispered, his fingers stilling.

Keith hummed.

Lance swallowed. “I’m still thinking,” he said finally, his breath catching.

“About what?” Keith sounded drowsy, relaxed.

“About—you.” Lance squirmed. “On my—nebula.”

Keith froze in his arms and the terror gripped at Lance’s insides again. He should have swallowed his tongue, should have left the box _closed_ —

Keith shifted back, just enough to blink at Lance. “Really?”

Lance balked. “I mean, yeah?”

“No, I wasn’t sure—“ Keith broke off. His arm tightened around Lance’s shoulders, warm and comfortable under Lance. “You’re going to put me on your skin?”

Lance flushed, grimacing. “On my _nebula_.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Of course I am!”

Keith blinked at him some more, and then smiled, slow and sweet. “Oh.”

They looked at each other for a moment more, someone whistling on the street below and then a car roaring by. Then, Keith leaned in to press a warm kiss to Lance’s lips, stealing Lance’s breath away all over again.

“Take your time,” Keith said softly, and settled again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lance watched his eyes flutter close, listened to his breath settle, studied the smile still playing at Keith’s lips. He grimaced. “I’m so dumb,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing! Don’t ask!”

 

***

 

(In the morning, while Keith brushed his teeth and Red dozed in a comfy pile on their bed, Lance tugged the sheet from his backpack. He smoothed it open against his thighs, studying the rows on rows of Keith’s name.

Keith, toothpaste smeared on his lips and toothbrush clenched in his hands, came up behind Lance and made a thoughtful noise.

Lance managed not to explode.

“How about that,” Keith said.

“Go away!”)

 

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from “i want you” by mø
> 
> adkfaljdfalsdf


End file.
